Page 95 of My Best French Wedding

“We could start with today,” Hildy offered. “See where it leads us.”

It took him several tries to find his voice. “We—what?”

“Open at the wedding, go big on the descriptions, and then flash back to high school. But we don’t gloss over all the hard parts, because we want it to have a little gravity, like you said. Our story,” she added, waving at him. “Earth to Walter.”

“The wedding. Got it.” He picked up his ballpoint, trying to look like he was focused on the task at hand. When he flipped back through the last few pages of his notes, a line jumped out at him. “I jotted something down. While we were there.”

“Let’s see.” She tried to drag the notebook to her side of the table, but he held on.

“It’s probably too cheesy.”

“How will I know if you don’t let me see it?”

Reluctantly, he lifted his hand. Hildy grabbed the notebook and flipped it around. “Is this shorthand?”

“My handwriting sucks.”

“Read it to me.” She shoved it back at him.

“Once upon a time, a kingdom traded science for magic and a white coat for a wedding gown fit for a queen.” He forced himself to look up. “Too much alliteration?”

She leaned across the table, tapping the back of his hand with her index finger. “That could be our first line.” Her smile was as slow and warm as syrup over a fresh stack of pancakes. “I’m going to start calling you Walt as in Disney.”

“Why?”

“Because he made the magic happen. That’s all I know about him, so hopefully he wasn’t a total deviant.” She shrugged an apology, just in case. “Might leave the metaphors to you.”

“I was actually named after Walter Cronkite. The news anchor.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just mansplain media history 101 to me.”

“Sorry. I’m not used to being around people who care aboutthis stuff.” Nor had he realized how cool it would be to share your weird obsessions with someone.

“For your punishment, you can sit there and watch me eat another piece of pie.”

“Agony,” he agreed, quoting Carlton and Carlee’s favorite song fromInto the Woods.

31Hildy

TWO DAYS BEFORE THE PRESCOTT-SCHAFER WEDDING

TAMNIÈS, France—“That was our first inside joke.” Walter’s eyes were wide and hopeful, like the babe in the woods she’d mistaken him for back then. This time, Hildy wasn’t fooled.

“Talk about selective amnesia.”

“I remember everything,” he insisted. “Every hour of every day we spent together.”

They’d been more or less inseparable. The excuse was that they were working on their project, but there had been long stretches where journalism was the furthest thing from her mind.

“The classes,” Walter continued, like he was working down a list, “the cocktail party full of boring old people that was somehow fun. The makeover.”

“I helped you pick an outfit. It wasn’t amakeover.” Not like the glow-up he’d had since then.

“I remember walking home with you one night and wanting to hold your hand, but I didn’t know if it would be okay. And then we got to your room, and I was desperate to kiss you.”

“Butyouwere the one who worried it would get messy if we broke up before we finished our project. Like I was some kind of drama queen.”

“That wasn’t what I was thinking at all.”